


An Encyclopedia of Fantastic Boys and Beastly Girls

by departure_to



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, F/M, Magizoologist Luna Lovegood, Magizoology (Harry Potter), Minor Original Character(s), POV Multiple, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-22 13:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30039402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/departure_to/pseuds/departure_to
Summary: Lorcan and Lysander Scamander aren't sure why the surprise addition to their family had to be a little sister instead of something fun, like a dragon or a kneazle. They resolve to teach her quidditch.Scorpius can't understand why everyone other than him is so painfully stupid (best friend included) or disastrously red-headed.Albus wonders why this girl can recognize almost any animal track found in the Forbidden Forest, but has no idea how to identify when a boy is flirting with her. He resolves to destroy her in quidditch.The adults contemplate how they can stop the world from ending again, all while raising an absurd, rowdy bunch of children. And why it feels so much harder than the last time.
Relationships: Albus Severus Potter/Original Female Character(s), Lorcan Scamander & Lysander Scamander, Luna Lovegood/Rolf Scamander, Scorpius Malfoy & Albus Severus Potter, Scorpius Malfoy/Rose Weasley
Comments: 7
Kudos: 7





	1. Prologue 1: A hand to hold

**An Encyclopedia of Fantastic Boys and Beastly Girls**

**April 13 th, 2007**

_Somewhere in England_

“It’s Friday the bloody _thirteenth_ , Harry. As if this place wasn’t ominous _enough_.”

Ron Weasley shuddered at his own words, hand out and wand loosely held between thumb and pointer finger as the two men ventured onto the site. Each adorned an equally grim black cloak and pair of thick leather boots, swollen eyes and stubble-covered cheeks; they had matching sets of wild, uncombed bed-hair reminiscent of the mops they sported as roommates at Hogwarts. They both silently mourned the beds they’d left.

Harry and Ron had been called in for an emergency, both shaken awake by a familiar and unwelcome bark from their commanding officer through their floos. Little in the way of details had been given, just strict orders of _apparate to these coordinates,_ _bring your protective gear,_ and _I don’t care how late it is._

It wasn’t _late_ anymore – Harry qualified this particular hour as _cruelly, unusually early._

And it _was_ fairly ominous, he further acknowledged, taking in the plot they arrived at. It’d been a while since he’d been called in for a case like this. It’d been even longer since he’d seen such utter destruction, and he was having trouble picturing what the building they climbed through would’ve looked like _whole_.

… Something with walls and doors and windows and a _roof. Huh._

Harry stared through his dirty glasses at what was once a building – now a pile of stone, splinters, and broken glass. And if Harry looked close enough, a whole lot of blood; red rivers that slithered and trickled into the dirt.

_Ominous,_ Harry silently agreed, stomach rolling uncomfortably. By his side, Ron flinched and sidestepped a suspicious puddle on old floorboards.

“Officer Potter, Officer Weasley, glad you could make it.” The man sounded politely _surprised_ ; as if he hadn’t been the one waking them minutes ago with his brusque instructions. Ron scoffed as loud as he dared, which barely reached Harry’s ear.

Gawain Robards lifted his head just enough to send the two Aurors a stiff smile. Built like a giant, stern as they came; He looked like a man that would shout orders until your ears rang. Instead, he waved them over with a beefy hand and pursed lips.

Robards had never looked relaxed in all the years Harry had known him.

Harry supposed this would be the _last_ place Robards would look relaxed in, though. He was stationed on an active crime scene in the middle of the night in a muggle neighborhood, surrounded by half his Auror department and a frenzy of other personnel, and had four different officers giving him reports simultaneously.

As Harry and Ron approached, their eyes were drawn to the makeshift table in the middle of the group, where a self-writing quill was scribbling on a roll of parchment; It struggled to keep up with how fast the officers spoke.

“– building previously thought abandoned, witnesses claim they’ve never met the occupants –”

“– based on the smoke radius, blast _could’ve_ been a bomb, possibly muggle-made –”

One of the officers scoffed.

“– _unlikely_ muggle-made; the sensors _screaming_ about dark magic, curse breakers haven’t found a source yet –”

“Have you found any survivors?” Harry asked, cutting through the group to check if it’d been covered already on the written report. It hadn’t – multiple pairs of eyes stared at him, but not one person appeared comfortable enough to speak.

… That was something he’d have to work on, as these officers were going to report to _him_ in a few short months when Robards retired.

Then, with a sleep-laden blink behind his crooked glasses, he remembered all the blood he’d just tiptoed around. _Huh. Right._

“Bodies?”

“Two so far,” Robards grumbled, turning fully to Harry and Ron and away from the rest of the group. As the man spouted a full report to the new arrivals, the other officers quickly dispersed. “Rescue divisions three and seven are on plot coordinating with medi-witches; Investigation squad is collecting debris samples – Weasley, the Muggle Artifacts crew is having trouble with some unusual residue – they’ve asked for you to report in. Due east by the medi-witch tents.”

Robards’ beefy hand waved towards a row of hastily assembled stations at the debris perimeter. Ron nodded quickly and departed, knotted red hair a beacon above his black-covered, hunched shoulders.

Harry’s green eyes followed his friend as he left, taking in the wider scope of what they’d walked into; It was the textbook definition of organized chaos, wizards and witches running around and commanding attention and blocking each other’s paths. _Far_ more than just Aurors. Harry’s eyes lingered on the tent nearest to them, where a familiar owl emblem banner hung by the entrance. One he’d seen on Hermione’s uniforms for years, before she got promoted.

Robards’ eyes followed Harry’s across the plot – the man was far more observant than his stocky, brutal appearance implied.

“I called in the DRCMC myself – we’ve found scorch marks on some of the wall pieces. We could be dealing with a dragon or another beast with blast capabilities.”

“What about fiendfyre? Firestorm charms?”

Robards shook his head. “No fresh residual magic has been found yet. _Traces_ , sure, but nothing indicating recent spellwork on site.”

Harry’s eyebrows creased. _That_ didn’t make sense – an officer _just_ said there was dark magic –

Seeing the younger man’s confusion morph his features, Robards clarified. “Investigation squad is looking for cursed items or dark creatures – no spellwork, not anywhere near here. Said it felt _old,_ whatever that _bloody_ means.”

_Old_ could mean a lot of things when it came to the wizarding world. _All_ of them spelled trouble, in Harry’s opinion.

He dropped his mouth closed, resigned and too unfamiliar with the intricacies of magic traces to disagree. Harry _really_ hoped there wasn’t some dark, dangerous beast lurking around nearby when he’d yet to fully wake. But it was a small comfort to see Rolf Scamander’s towering form weaving through the crowds on site – they met eyes, green and brown, and shared a quick nod.

Rolf disappeared from view seconds later when he entered the DRCMC tent. He had a report, not necessarily relevant to the case, but important nonetheless to the woman he knew was sitting inside.

“Harry and Ron are here, love,” Rolf murmured as he passed through the tent flaps, directing the statement at a hunched figure in the leftmost corner between a large, empty bird carrier and a stack of beast tracking texts. The space had been taken over entirely by his wife, who’d been engrossed in her research for the better part of an hour, now.

Blonde hair parted enough for curious grey eyes to lift up, though they still darted back and forth as if they were reading the book in her hand. Rolf would’ve smiled endearingly, but it was neither the time nor the place.

“Are they looking well?”

_As well as anyone with young children and unpredictable sleep hours looks._ They would know – they had two sons of their own, ( _hopefully_ ) dutifully sleeping at their grandfather’s house.

“A bit tired… I don’t think either of them were meant to be on duty tonight,” Rolf admitted.

Grey eyes flitted back down to the book, and Luna hummed thoughtfully. The two of _them_ weren’t meant to be on duty, either – they didn’t even work officially for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. But the Scamanders had a gentleman’s agreement with the Beast Division that they would assist on difficult cases, and in return their often-eccentric research expeditions would be escalated for Ministry approval.

Most days, it was a fine arrangement. But today… well, Rolf hadn’t quite been able to swallow the lump in his throat since they arrived. The entire area stunk of something bad, something… _ominous._

“Luna, we’ve found what looks to be the center of the scorch radius,” A DRCMC officer spoke, barely through the entrance of the tent. Luna looked up again, this time with an owlish blink and a dreamy smile that had the officer faltering. She closed her book and stood.

“ _Fascinating_ ,” she responded. Her tone would’ve been considered condescending were she anyone else, but both Rolf and the officer knew better. Her smile stayed unsettlingly in place even as they exited the tent to behold the scene outside.

“Take me there, will you?”

Rolf and a gaggle of others followed behind the Luna and the officer, careful not to disturb the piles of rubble lining both sides of their makeshift path through the destroyed building. When their path intersected what used to be the living room of the house, the officer paused.

They’d labelled it the _living room_ because of the bits of couch stuffing sticking to all the splintered wood with bloody adhesive. But calling such an unlivable mess a _living_ room made Rolf’s stomach turn.

A few floating markers already gathered around their feet near uncovered scorch debris. And Luna was already kneeling and pushing her face _close_ with a casualness that made Rolf’s hands twitch by his sides. But his awe of her thinking face overpowered any instinctual desire to pull her back to the safety of the walking path.

“These scorch patterns indicate a central blast, rather than a moving point of induction. Not a dragon unless it dropped down into the room,” Luna murmured as her pale fingers pointed towards the middle of the plot they stood in, and the group’s eyes followed, “and spun around to hit all corners of the house evenly. An overhead shot wouldn’t create this large of a radius without a crater forming.”

“What about ashwinder eggs? They can take down buildings in enough numbers,” another officer proposed.

Luna hummed again, grey eyes darting around like a snitch.

“An interesting theory… have there been any shells recovered? Ashwinder eggs create craters as well, though they _could_ be small enough to get covered up with the debris.”

The group dispersed in search of a crater without further question; meanwhile Luna stood to full height and continued on into the center of the plot with wand working rapidly. She methodically levitated broken walls and furniture until there was a narrow, uneven path for Rolf to follow her down. Her eyes continued to dance across the space.

“It couldn’t have been ashwinders. The ground is far too wet for them to nest in this area,” Rolf supplied. His wife already knew this, though.

Ashwinders liked dry habitats because the steam their bodies created near water could damage ( _cook_ ) their eggs, and this plot closely bordered a swamp. _Elementary,_ Rolf wanted to snark at the retreating team, but there were more important things to do. He lifted his wand to help.

Luna nodded in agreement as she levitated a piece of wooden tabletop slowly, catching a waterfall of loose rocks that tipped over and into the opening she created. The spot underneath the table was a patch of carpet, conspicuously free of the blast dust covering the rest of the plot but dyed a deep red.

Rolf suspected red was _not_ its original color. His throat tightened and he resisted the urge to cough.

What gave the two of them pause, however, was not the carpet’s ominous coloring. An oddly shaped shadow stood out against the flooring, and it _could’ve_ been a trick of the eye, but Rolf could _swear_ it moved. Luna saw it too – her grip on her wand tightened, her knees bent.

The both of them moved closer, wands ready – Rolf’s mind ran with the possibilities, sorting through lists of magical creatures and how to subdue them, if necessary.

But the shadow uncovered something neither of them were equipped to deal with –

_A… human hand._

A tiny, delicate, _human_ hand. Rolf sucked in a ragged breath, cataloguing the rice-grain fingernails and the pale flesh barely showing through the red stains covering most of the skin. Again, his stomach rolled.

_Lorcan and Lysander have hands like these,_ was the thought that finally drove the knot in his throat up into his mouth. Rolf retched into a nearby stone pile, vaguely aware of his wife’s hoarse shouts gathering people to help.

Thick leather boots arrived in Rolf’s peripheral, and he knew without raising his head that it was Harry. The voice that came from the Auror confirmed it.

“It’s _moving._ ”

Rolf’s head swung upwards, a sickening hope filling his stomach as Harry and Luna hovered around the carpet patch.

Sure enough, the tiny fingers twitched.

The next few minutes were a blur of levitating and medi-witches with Harry and Luna caught in the middle. There were other black cloaks approaching and diagnostics flying with complete disregard for the surrounding muggle neighborhood, but it appeared Rolf wasn’t the only one who had ceased caring about such things as discretion. The child – _child, here of all places_ – was uncovered and dislodged from the bloody carpet and swept into awaiting arms.

Over his wife’s shoulder rose a pair of clear, blinking blue eyes and a tuft of platinum hair. It looked so like their son Lorcan that Rolf nearly shouted the name, but the combination of blood and smoke and debris and the taste of his previous retching was just enough to keep him cognizant. It wasn’t his son – it was too small, too young, and its eyes weren’t the ocean blue Lorcan had, but an icy blue that would later remind him of Alaskan glaciers and winter skies.

Not right now, though.

Harry wasn’t faring well either – he stood beside Luna looking so green his eyes nearly blended into his face, and Ron arrived soon after with a characteristically belligerent shout about transport to a hospital.

It wasn’t until later, much later, while Rolf sat in the waiting room at St. Mungo’s with his fidgeting wife awaiting a report on the child, that he had a chance to reflect on the expression he had seen on Harry’s face hours before.

He’d never seen that particular shade of green and deathly pale on a person before.

“Luna,” he rubbed a hand over his face for the umpteenth time, cleared the crust from his eyes. His dark hair was in a state of disarray more outrageous than usual. “D’you reckon Harry was seeing himself?”

Distracted from her fidgeting, Luna sat back until her chair squeaked, considering. Her light eyes searched the waiting room as if looking for clues.

“You mean the night his parents died?”

“…yeah.”

It was unsettling to think about – but for both Scamanders, it was easier to think about _Harry_ than how closely the child resembled their own two boys. While they sat at St. Mungo’s, exhausted, swarmed with Aurors and the smell of antiseptic and a trail of blood that no one had had time or energy to clean off the linoleum, they were thankful that their boys were safe and sound at Luna’s father’s house.

**April 13 th, 2007**

_Rook House_

_Granddad’s gone loony again,_ two blonde toddlers thought with a commiserating glance towards each other.

They sat on the weathered rug of their grandfather’s bedroom, watching silently, albeit curiously, as he shuffled around the space and threw old clothes onto his bed. With a surprising amount of gusto, he squashed a lopsided tophat down to fit in the sleeve of a suitcase. They were both hit with the unsavory scent of old mothballs.

“Going to be late,” he muttered to himself, eyes darting around the room. He had the same look as their mom when she got frazzled, though the twins somehow suspected she wouldn’t take kindly to such an observation. She always looked upset when he got like this.

“Late f’r what, gran-pa?”

Lorcan was still struggling with enunciation – he was only _three_ , after all - and Dad always seemed more interested in teaching them the names of dragon breeds or the like, and only got around to _normal_ words when Mom wandered into the room. In his head, Lorcan chanted; _Wels’ Green, Hung’ran Horntail, Sweet-ish… no, that wasn’t right._

Their grandfather stilled at the noise, searching the room until –

Xenophilius Lovegood finally found the source of the question, and with brown eyes much the same shade as Lysander’s, examined the two small, lumpy forms sitting cross-legged on his floor. The twins watched him back, enthralled and entertained by his erratic behavior.

“Who might _you_ be?”

_Hah._

Neither could say who laughed first – they wouldn’t, because they knew whoever _did_ would inevitably be scolded. The little boys were _devils,_ but not _stupid._ Their grandfather forgot them all the time, especially when they paid him a visit without Mom around.

She seemed to keep his eyes clear when she was there. For whatever reason -

Maybe it was part of Mom’s _witch powers_ , which they were yet to really understand out of the context of the few accidents they’d caused, like lighting her kitchen towels on fire and turning the coffee table legs into rubber snakes. Three-year-olds couldn’t hope to speculate on such things.

So instead, they just laughed. Blubbery toddler giggling filled the cramped, circular space. Xenophilius pouted at the reaction, but didn’t seem perturbed at the intrusion of the boys at his home.

_That was good_ – last time, he’d thought the boys were _garden gnomes_ and asked if they would consider biting him. It had taken them hiding deep in the hallway closet before he forgot they were there and wandered off, mumbling to himself about mermaids and opera singers.

_Completely loony –_ twin boys silently agreed.

“ _Dad_?”

That was a familiar lilt – all three of the bedroom occupants perked as it echoed up from downstairs, and the telltale _click_ of the front door shutting. With quick reflexes, the twins tumbled out of the room and down the spiral staircase to the ground floor.

None of the three of them realized this, but Luna was actually arriving hours later than she had promised – it was already morning. Her and Rolf were still blinking away the blinding sunrise, but were aware enough of the pitter patter of small feet approaching to frown. Their two boys were wide awake and _not_ in bed at this hour?

“Luna, dear, what brings you to your old father’s home today?” Xenophilius’s wrinkled face split into a wide grin, before turning thoughtful.

He continued, “I’m afraid I don’t have time for tea. I was just packing for a trip to London, you see. Terrible accident at Laverne’s Loquacious Hair Lab – _pixies_ mixing the hair potions, or something odd-like.”

Luna was good about humoring her father at such times… but this morning her eyes were dull and red-rimmed, and all she could think of was a shower and a long nap. Nonetheless, she managed to push out a well-seasoned response.

“Quite the predicament, father,” she responded lightly, adjusting the bundle curled into her hip. “But I don’t believe they’re open yet – how about you let us help you back to bed, and Rolf and I can drop by to get an interview for the Quibbler later today?”

And so the routine continued, where the two bone-tired magizoologists herded the man back up the spiral staircase and safely into bed. They needed a better alternative for babysitting – that was a problem for another day, though. For now, they needed to get Lorcan and Lysander into the floo before the adults both dropped from sheer exhaustion.

The twins didn’t ask about the bundle their mom held, even when its eyes opened and looked down at them with a weary curiosity that matched their own. Because the twins weren’t stupid, fun as it was to act like they were. The bundle was an abnormality, and there was a sense of wrongness at its presence in Luna’s arms. But their mother was clutching it with so much… _certainty_.

The group of four, now five, flooed back to their home at 9 Sherringford Square in eerie, unsettled silence.


	2. Prologue 2: Unofficially official, and officially unofficial

**June 5 th, 2007**

_St. Mungo’s_

Draco Malfoy hated nothing more than the taste of Polyjuice potion. Depending on the person one was trying to transform into, the initial taste could be pleasant enough… but the sludge-like, foul coating that sat at the back of your throat while your bones creaked and snapped under transforming skin was the worst taste Draco could imagine. And that, _that_ taste stuck around for days.

This was a fact he always seemed to conveniently forget until the bottle hit his lips, and by then it was far too late.

It had also been, well, a _long time_ since he’d had Polyjuice potion. Long enough that any excuse of _youth_ and _stupidity_ that usually precluded consumption of this potion could no longer be used. Why had he thought this was a good idea, again? Astoria was going to cut his bollocks off if she found out.

“… Are you alright, sir?”

_No_ , he wasn’t alright, thank you very little. He was in the middle of picturing his wife sawing off his _private_ bits with a some-odd centuries old butter knife. One from his mother’s ghastly silverware collection, the set they only took out when they were unfortunate enough to host his parents for dinner.

The woman behind the counter was eyeing him concernedly, her thick eyebrows pinched above a pair of wire glasses that were nearly swallowed by the hood of her eyelids. As the receiver of this woman’s undivided attention, he was thankful, despite the foul taste, for the fact that he had taken the potion this morning. Had he not looked like some nameless muggle, he could bet the woman would look a lot _less_ worried and a lot _more_ angry at his audacity for showing up in this office.

This office housed one of the lesser-known departments at St. Mungo’s, small and cramped likely due to the lack of cases they managed. The Wizarding population of Britain was blessedly _low_ on orphaned children, after all. Such was the way of peacetime.

In fact, the only reason he _knew_ about this particular office was a recent Prophet article claiming some kind of blow-up between Loony Lovegood and the golden boy himself, Harry Potter, a month or so ago. It was the first, and hopefully the last, time he would find anything written by the Daily Prophet _useful._

Draco wasn’t sure what he’d hoped to get out of this visit, either way. No one in their right mind would stamp their approval on adoption papers for a former Death Eater. It didn’t matter that he was pardoned; he’d already read all the fine print ( _alone in his home office, his wife’s muted sniffling carrying through the old townhome walls_ ), and he was positive that any indication of a criminal record on his application would get it swept straight into the rubbish bin. His last name alone would probably do that, in fact.

He wouldn’t blame them, too. Wizard orphans were small in numbers and there were plenty of _good_ people willing to take them in. Like _Loony Lovegood_ , if the article was to be believed.

“… Sir?”

_Why had he come here, again?_ Draco could’ve sworn his father had beaten all sense of impulse from him eons ago with that dastardly cane of his. And this was, undeniably, very much an impulsive trip. A trip to an adoption center without the consent of his mourning, newly infertile wife.

Right. This was a bad, bad idea. A Bad Idea to end all Bad Ideas.

Without responding to the receptionist, the transformed Draco spun on his heel, and with steps unsteady but urgent, left the office.

He missed the unmistakable mop of inky black hair approaching as he turned the corner.

**June 5 th, 2007**

_9 Sherringford Square_

Harry arrived at 9 Sherringford Square just after lunch and many hours after he’d intended; the combination of two young children, a pregnant wife, and a promotion at work had driven him into a perpetual state of lateness. No matter how early he rose, there was always an accident-prone toddler there to greet him and demand food or cry until his ears hurt. Always Robards grumbling through the floo without invitation, making sure his department didn’t fall apart in the early days of his retirement.

And that rather distracted looking receptionist at St. Mungo’s this morning. So yes, he was running late. _Again._

Harry tried not to think about the multitude of other things he had to do today, mustering his most genuine smile and knocking on the door in front of him.

Moments later Rolf Scamander, dressed casually in a pair of Thai fisherman pants and a cotton shirt, answered with three small children clutching his legs. Three heads of blonde hair, two pairs of blue eyes, one pair of brown, and all very curious about the strange, vaguely familiar uniformed man with unbrushed hair loitering in their doorway. All at once, Harry’s smile felt too strained, too fake. The two young fathers blinked at each other for a beat before Harry was greeted with –

“You look _awful_ , mate.”

Harry sighed. Rolf wasn’t the pitying type, but that sure sounded like pity. But hey, at least he was being friendly. That was frankly more than he’d hoped for, after _the incident._

“Yes, right. Thanks, Rolf.” The herd of Scamanders stepped aside, letting the tired man in.

“Any time.”

The Scamander townhome had always been comfortable to Harry, with its dark wallpapers and plush carpets and extensive collection of trinkets on every surface. It reminded him a lot of The Burrow in all its clutter and chaos, with one distinction – there was a subtle undercurrent of wealth in the Scamander home that was absent in the Weasley home.

Material wealth, sure – the rugs were hand-knotted, thick and probably imported, the large bookcase in the hallway was a beautiful Indonesian teak that Ginny gushed over whenever they visited. But moreso a wealth of experience – If you looked close enough, many of the texts and scrolls stuffed in odd corners were written by Rolf or Luna, and the photos propped around the house were taken in innumerable different locations around the world that they’d visited for research.

One did not become so well respected in their field without the perk of an impressive salary. Harry could speak from experience. Not that he had any _time_ at present to enjoy such a perk.

“Luna’s in the kitchen – _Love, Harry’s here_!” With announcements out of the way, Rolf stumbled off into the living room with children in tow, the three of them still clutching to his wide pant legs and stepping clumsily on his bare feet. Harry chuckled warily at the sendoff and made his way to the right, where he knew the kitchen hid around the corner.

Sure enough, Luna was sitting at the island counter with a large mug of tea in one hand and this week’s Quibbler balanced in her other open palm. She smiled at Harry carefully when he appeared.

The smile was ingenuine enough that he nearly jolted. Luna was many things, many oddities, but she was rarely ever _fake._ It was enough to spur Harry into talking first, if only to get the conversation over with.

“Ginny and I picked a name,” he blurted, flustered. “Lily Luna Potter.”

“Lily _Luna_?” She blinked slowly, processing. Her tea hovered inches from her mouth.

“Yes.”

Luna paused long enough to set down her magazine and her mug. He could practically _see_ her brain working around the new information, brilliant as she was.

“Lilies symbolize rebirth, _luna_ meaning moon can symbolize birth and death, the passage of time…” Harry couldn’t tell if she was speaking to herself or to him, until she leveled him with a knowing look. “Rather redundant, choosing Luna for a middle name. I hope you don’t intend to butter me up – I’m happy for you and Ginny either way.”

Harry shouldn’t have been surprised – it wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ be that easy. And it was such a Luna thing to say, toeing the line between hopelessly straightforward and outright offensive. But also distinctly unlike her in how distrusting she was.

That was fair, Harry guessed. The last time they’d spoken it… hadn’t gone well. _At all_.

The last time they’d spoken was probably, hopefully, the last time the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would ask him to play political peacemaker. Because the result had been actually quite disastrous, and Hermione had broken it up in spectacular fashion before Luna could truly dip into the well of anger displayed on her normally placid face. They’d made it into the news, too.

_I’m the Minister for_ bloody _Magic,_ Hermione had shouted over everyone, spurred to exit her office by sheer noise levels by the Auror cubicles, _I don’t have_ time _to deal with this, but if I need to recite the entire_ bloody _Wizarding code to stop all this posturing, I_ bloody _will Harry! You have twenty-four hours to produce evidence that Law Enforcement should have input on this case, otherwise you are barred!_

… Yeah, needless to say, his only role in said _case_ since that day was delivering the paperwork like a glorified mailman. Nothing in government worked that fast, and Hermione knew that firsthand as Minister. Twenty-four hours? What a _joke_.

“It’s not an incentive, Luna – it’s a reminder. That we care about you and your family,” Harry corrected unsteadily, exhaustedly, choosing that moment to slip a thick envelope out of his uniform cloak and handing it to her. Mailman duties, complete.

“And that includes your _daughter_.”

He knew what the papers said – had reread them thrice this morning, in case any of the requested omissions hadn’t been followed. All paper-thin technicalities and political nonsense that made his investigation more impossible, but he knew would save his old friend a lot of trouble. So instead of agonizing over it, he focused on how Luna’s tense shoulders melted, and she read quickly, devouring the words on the page like they would disappear if she were too slow to reach them.

_Report of Adoption for Melynda Scamander, previous name unknown, daughter of Rolf and Luna Scamander nee Lovegood. Relinquishment of Parental Rights signed and attached by proxy, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, under condition that birth parents and identifiable extended family are deceased or of unsound mind…_

“What are the conditions?”

“There are none.” _Lie._

“Don’t lie to me.” Luna’s lilted voice sharpened, but her grey eyes didn’t lift from the papers. They seemed to be enough for her, right now.

He was positive she didn’t miss the proxy signature – his own chicken scratch handwriting. He wasn’t sure if that helped or hurt, right now. And Harry didn’t deny the accusation, but _hell,_ he was tired.

“Have there been any leads on the missing object?” Luna asked. She didn’t ask about the general case – she was reiterating her point from last month. _A dark object_ caused the explosion Melynda was recovered from. None were found on the site; It was a dead end for his team, other than the most horrifying, obvious solution that he was steadfastly avoiding.

“None yet, I’m afraid.”

Luna lowered her gaze back to her adoption papers. They had nothing more to discuss, at present. And Harry was running late for his next appointment.

When Harry turned to quietly leave the kitchen, there was a small figure standing unsteadily in the doorway. The only things distinguishing Melynda Scamander from Lorcan and Lysander was her marginally smaller stature, and the fact that she was wearing a dress (not that Harry put much stock into attire, especially on children). She appeared to have adjusted well to her new surroundings, which made him almost smile.

At least she wasn’t covered in blood this time.

Harry saw himself out of the Scamander’s home. Blinking away the fatigue from his eyes, he conjured a mental list of everything else he had to get done today.

Sometimes, selfishly, Harry Potter wished someone _else_ would do these things – he could really use a break. And a good night’s sleep. He felt he’d earned it, at this point in his life.

But he knew as long as this case remained unsolved, sleep wouldn’t come.

***

When Draco arrived home hours later, the taste of Polyjuice remained a sour reminder in his throat. He’d long since transformed back into his towering, austere, platinum-haired form, but the usual pale porcelain of his skin was flushed by the lingering embarrassment at his actions, and he was sure Astoria would pick up on it the moment he ran into her.

Really, it’d been a whole new level of _stupid_ of him. Blaise would laugh his arse off if he ever found out. And again, the vision of Astoria sawing into him with a butter knife resurfaced.

After leaving St. Mungo’s he hadn’t quite known what to do with himself, other than wallow in his own self-pity, avoid his conspicuously ordinary disguise in reflective surfaces, and chase the taste of potions from his mouth at the nearest muggle pub. Once he’d changed back to _Draco,_ he’d wandered into Diagon Alley, intent on finding an excuse for his extended absence from the Malfoy townhome.

… Astoria and their house elf Cibsey had opened up the nursery for the first time today. They’d been talking about making it into a home gym, or a playroom for Scorpius. They were finally ready to acknowledge the empty space, change it around into something _useful_ again.

Draco, apparently, was _not_ at that stage of grief yet. But was it so wrong for him to want Scorpius to have siblings, like he never had? With that thought plaguing him on his jaunt through the shops, he’d found himself wandering into a shop he remembered his own father bringing him to when he was eleven. One of the rare good memories of his father, in fact.

“Father, what’s _that_?” A small, curious voice asked him.

And he’d purchased… _that._

Dazedly, Draco’s silver gaze swept over his miniature son (who really did look like Draco, so much) and eventually landed on the carrier dangling off his own arm, and more specifically, the furry creature dozing inside. A British shorthair with thick grey fur and piercing yellow eyes and likely the worst thing he could’ve impulse purchased in this afternoon. Because Draco _hated_ cats.

But he couldn’t take it back _now,_ with little Scorpius eyeing the animal like it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen. So Draco accepted the prodding of his son with no verbal complaints, opening the cage and setting the kitten on the platform of two flattened palms the toddler presented to him.

The smile his son gave him in thanks was the brightest, most beautiful thing Draco had ever seen. And when Astoria watched on in the doorway with a look of understanding that he had anticipated (dreaded), Draco thought maybe, just _maybe_ , he could be okay.

Not today. But someday.

**December 24 th, 2008**

_Ministry of Magic, Auror Office_

“Harry, why’re you still here? It’s Christmas Eve,” a voice, tired and edged with a whine, called through the open door of his office. Harry murmured something in reply, not nearly loud enough to carry – he heard footsteps approach in response.

“Come again? Come on, let’s walk to the floos together. Ginny’ll have my head if I let you stay any later.”

“Yeah, yeah, give me a minute.”

It was Ron – Harry should’ve known just from the voice. He shot a lopsided smile at his friend and continued shoving rolls of parchment into his expandable bag (a Hermione Granger-Weasley gift) to take home for review over the holidays. He was sure Ron had his own stack in his backpack, though between all Hermione’s Minister events and their two young kids he doubted the man would get much done at home.

“Is that for… you know…” Ron tilted his chin towards the roll in Harry’s hand, which was visibly sealed with confidentiality charms in bold lettering.

Harry wished he’d put it in his bag first, to save himself from this conversation. But alas, “Yeah, thought it couldn’t hurt to go through the facts again. One more time, you know?”

“Hoping a glass or four of Ogdens at home will help you have an epiphany, or something?” It came out joking, because Ron had never been good at scolding. That was Hermione’s area of expertise.

“Ron,” Harry sighed, grunted as he swung his closed bag over his shoulder. “I’m just trying to be diligent. I don’t like leaving a case open this long.”

“That’s the whole point – we’re _closing_ the case. What information will you find on that parchment that hasn’t been written there for over a year?”

_Temporarily_ closing, Harry wanted to clarify. But ultimately his friend was right; no further leads had popped up since the night of Melynda Scamander’s recovery from that building. And his only possible uninvestigated lead was the aforementioned three-year-old, who Hermione had explicitly (in writing) barred his department from questioning further.

But hey, he hadn’t tried Ogden’s yet. Maybe Ron was onto something.

“I just,” Harry called the lift, huffing. “We’ve got to be missing something, Ron. All that dark magic, but no cursed items recovered.”

“Somebody apparated it away, then.”

Harry turned sidelong to glare at his friend, who raised a ginger eyebrow in challenge. “Apparition leaves magic traces. There were none recent enough to the attack.”

“Fine, then a portkey,” he threw back easily, stepping into the lift. They’d that this conversation many times, already.

“Would’ve needed two, and no _first_ used portkey was found, or any other person’s DNA or magic signature on the plot. Portkeys are touch-activated, and all the residents were still in the building. _How_ would they have used a portkey, Ron?”

“You don’t _know_ that all the residents – “

“ _Ron,_ yes I do!”

The lift flinched around them, dropped down multiple floors, and went careening in the direction of the lobby. Ron watched his friend with a frown as he huffed again. Chewed on his lip and debated how far he wanted to push.

_A little farther,_ Ron decided.

“Well, at least we have an idea of _what_ the object is,” He said slowly, quietly. Harry adjusted the strap of his bag and glared at his shoes.

“Yeah, I don’t count that as a _good_ thing, Ron.”

They shuffled out of the lift to the empty, towering Ministry lobby with matching frowns. Neither of them liked the darkness of the lobby finishes, especially when the space was so empty – black tile walls, dark hardwood floors – paired with their matching black uniforms, the whole place felt rather gloomy. It wasn’t helping their plummeting moods.

They’d nearly reached the floo stations when Ron responded.

“We’ve dealt with them before, Harry. We, of all people, know how to handle… _it._ ”

That wasn’t the part Harry was worried about. “I just – if it really _is,_ and it’s unaccounted for, then…”

Ron paused, floo powder in hand. “Then we figure it out. As a team.”

The two men stood at their designated fireplaces, watching each other with sunken eyes and deep sighs. They felt older – too old, to be dealing with this again. But there was comfort in having a best friend there with you every step of the way. So Harry lifted his mouth into another lopsided, strained smile and nodded.

“Right. See you tomorrow, Ron. Happy Christmas.” The discussion, the case, was closed, at least for now – they wouldn’t dare bring it up at the Burrow tomorrow with their families.

Twin green flames erupted in the fireplaces.

“Happy Christmas, Harry.”


	3. Leaving the nest

**June 5 th, 2017**

_(nine years later) Diagon Alley_

“Cypress wood with a dragon heartstring core. Twelve and a half inches, and –” the wand bowed ever-so-slightly, “– Quite hard. A _powerful_ wand, indeed.”

Mr. Ollivander (Jr.) hummed, releasing the wand tip and cradling the intricately carved handle between his fingers like a treasure. Melynda watched him in wonder, buzzing from the physical loss of it in her palm.

Minutes ago, he’d taken one look at the little girl before sweeping to the back of his shop, deep in shelves covered in dust and shadows. He’d gotten halfway back down the narrow aisle to present his findings before the object soared away from him into Melynda’s awaiting hand. The glow, the _explosion_ of light that followed was nothing short of heart-stopping.

Melynda wished she hadn’t handed the wand back to him; it felt like she’d lost a limb. She twisted around, nervous and lost in the small space.

_Where had her mother wandered off to?_

Luna Scamander stood languidly by the checkout counter with her hands tucked into the pockets of her layered dress, but her grey eyes darted around the wand shop, watching with interest as the room began to settle. A stack of paper that Melynda had inadvertently knocked over righted itself, slipping easily under a paperweight shaped like a golden snitch. A tower of empty filing boxes restacked, leaning precariously just as they had before.

Melynda finally lowered her small hand to her side, rubbing it self-consciously over the rough denim of her shorts. But to her distress, the tingling in her palm persisted.

_Was that normal?_

“How is your father doing, Mr. Ollivander?” Luna asked while the older man maneuvered around the shop. He stopped after a moment, reaching up blindly to catch a dark wooden box that shot out of the shelves at him. It landed upright in his palm and opened to reveal the deepest green velvet, and he wedged the wand into its folds with practiced efficiency.

“He’s getting _old_ but… doing fairly well. I will tell him you asked after him,” He responded with a smile, placing the wooden case onto the cashier’s counter.

Melynda stepped closer to her mother, pressed into her side, while he rang them out. She buried her fingers in the extraneous patchworked dress fabric, because she needed something to do with her hands.

At the foreign weight on her hip, Luna glanced down – a mop of platinum hair flattened into her waist. She smiled and wove gentle fingers through the hair at the crown of the girl’s head, sent a comforting stroke down the center of her scalp.

“Do you still use the wand he made you?”

Luna almost took it out of her dress pocket so the man could observe for himself, but that would require removing the girl from her hip. She nodded, instead.

“Yes, I do.”

His smile deepened at that, and he hummed as he sifted through the galleons Luna drew from her pocketbook.

While he counted, a silver ribbon slipped out from one of the counter drawers to wrap around Melynda’s wooden case. Melynda watched, wide-eyed, as it carefully knotted into a bow and then slid toward her side of the counter – as if she’d looped a finger through and tugged.

… But her hands were tangled in the voluminous layers of her mother’s dress, at this moment. She confirmed with an experimental squeeze. Luna’s fingers stalled in her hair and Mr. Ollivander’s eyes wandered, but neither person commented as the case settled in front of the girl.

“I think this is the first Cypress wand I’ve ever sold; my father only sold a few. Did you know that the Cypress tree is associated with nobility and, in some cultures, death? Its wood makes for a marvelously durable wand, and is particularly resistant to water,” Mr. Ollivander rambled, eyes shining.

“I’ve found that bowtruckles enjoy cypress species, particularly the African cypress,” Luna added wistfully, taking her change and storing it in another hidden pocket of her dress. Melynda recognized the creature her mother mentioned; they were small, green, twiggy things that tended to nest in her father’s hair when he forgot to brush it. They also helped wandmakers identify acceptable trees for wand woods.

“Ah, but many African witches and wizards do not carry wands, from what I understand,” Mr. Ollivander replied, tapping his thin lower lip. Melynda’s eyebrows creased – how did they produce magic without a wand, then?

She thought about inquiring, because her parents always encouraged her to voice her curiosity, but a bell chime on the door interrupted her thoughts. In the doorway stood two – _no, three,_ there was a girl hiding behind them – new customers. A woman with straight ginger hair in a smart summer jacket, and what Melynda assumed were her children.

The woman spotted the two of them and grinned wide. And a little bit devilish.

“Luna! ‘Ve you Come to get Mellie a wand?”

Melynda’s eyebrow twitched – _Mellie?_ Who, other than her brothers when they teased her, called her _Mellie?_

“Oh yes, hi Ginny. We’re just wrapping up. Albus too?” Luna drifted over to the other woman, her smile warm. This must’ve been the _Ginny_ woman that her parents occasionally met for dinner when they weren’t on research expeditions outside the country. It was odd, finally seeing her in person. She seemed rather boisterous, for someone her mother considered a close friend.

Melynda, left without a place to bury her hands, reached up and circled them around her wand’s case, gulping when the previous tingling in her palms only intensified at the contact. _The silver bow was really quite pretty_ , she thought, even if ultimately useless. She wanted to hold the wand again, take it out of the velvet box and the silly, pretty bow and never return it there.

“Did it hurt?”

Melynda nearly jumped at the sudden noise, raising her head to meet a narrowed pair of green eyes to her left. The boy, not much taller than her but somehow imposing with his midnight hair and pressed shirt, frowned down at the case in her hands, before letting his gaze flit through the surrounding shelves.

“Did… _what_ hurt?”

The boy huffed, eyes landing back on her and no less narrowed. As if he found her stupid, for not knowing what he was talking about. “The test.”

A puzzle piece clicked into place in her head.

“The wand test?” She clarified. Melynda wasn’t sure how she’d wronged this boy, but his attitude was beginning to grate on her. Instead of answering, he nodded shortly.

“Not at all. It was quite exciting, actually,” she answered honestly, fingers curling tighter around her wooden case. He raised an eyebrow, as if he didn’t quite believe her, but nonetheless he seemed pleased at the answer; his shoulders visibly sagged, his fierce eyes softened.

In explanation, he offered, “My brother told me I had to fight a dragon, or a chimera. Something deadly, like that.”

Melynda hummed.

“Well, I guess it would depend on the breed of dragon, but I’d generally prefer a dragon over a chimera. They’re fairly docile as long as you don’t try to take their eggs.”

After a pregnant pause, Melynda turned back to the impatient boy to find him looking at her oddly. As if she’d said something _wrong_. But while reviewing the words in her own head, she found nothing untoward in her response. She was sure her parents would agree with the assessment, if she’d asked them.

Before the boy could reply, though, Melynda’s mother was calling for her at the exit. They had to meet up with the rest of the family down the street for lunch, and they were already late.

The Scamanders nodded their thanks to Mr. Ollivander, murmured goodbyes to Ginny and her children, and departed the shop. Four sets of eyes, all curious, followed them all the way through the door.

**August 30 th, 2017**

_Hogwarts Express_

Albus felt something, _someone_ , tugging on his shirt sleeve about thirty seconds into an agonizing, slobbery hug from his mother on the station platform. He knew immediately that it wasn’t James – James had slithered off into the crowd whole minutes ago, waving off their blubbery parents with excuses of meeting _friends._ A skillful diversion, Albus could admit. But realistic? Hardly.

Hah… as if James had _friends._

Albus knew it wasn’t Lily either, easily dismissible by the fact that this _whoever_ wasn’t cowering behind his father’s cloak a full meter away from the crosshairs.

That left only one option.

“ _Al, we’re going to be late!_ ” His cousin (blessed, blessed cousin) stage whispered to him, loud enough that his mother hiccupped in surprise and loosened her grasp on him slightly. It was enough, though. Albus slipped through the slack, deceptively weak-looking arms of his mother and grabbed for his cousin’s elbow. Rose got the message, hightailing it for the nearest carriage entrance.

“You better write to me every day, _ungrateful_ son of mine!” Ginny Potter screeched at his departure. As he hoisted himself up the steep train stairs, he heard her blow her nose into a handkerchief. In a moment of weakness, he sent a wave of acknowledgement back to her before the carriage doors closed.

“Come _on,_ Albus! I bet there aren’t even any compartments available, anymore. Learn how to say no to your mother, _honestly,”_ Rose grumbled as she stomped through the corridor, a beacon of red hair and an angry red face. Albus grinned at his cousin when she turned back to glare.

“But if I let her cry on me, I get the better sweets packages on holidays,” he replied. Rose’s eyebrow twitched, and her lips pursed. “And I’ll share with you, of course.”

Rose snorted. Satisfied at the arrangement, she whipped her head back around and resumed her search for a compartment. Most were already shut, some even had curtains drawn. It took three whole train cars until she paused.

There was a compartment with the door still open – a promising start – but it appeared there was already one occupant sitting inside. _Two, actually_ , Albus corrected in his head. A small boy with near-white hair, dressed in tailored trousers and a crisp button-down shirt, with a large grey cat dozing around his neck as though it were a scarf.

The boy noticed the two kids hovering in the doorway after a silent beat, lifting his startingly silver eyes from a book in his lap. Like liquid, he dragged them over Rose’s flustered form before glancing at Albus with an inquisitive raise of his pale eyebrow.

Albus figured it was only polite to introduce themselves first, as they were the ones intruding on the kid’s compartment.

“Nice cat,” He said, pointing awkwardly at the scarf-cat as if either Rose or the boy _wouldn’t_ know what he was referring to. Beside him, Rose groaned. The other boy’s mouth twitched into a small smile.

“Thanks. His name is Rudolf,” The boy replied, reaching up to stroke its fur.

“Like Rudolf Brand, the guy who tried to propose to Gwendolyn Morgan after that legendary seven-day match and she _concussed_ him with her Cleansweep?” Albus asked excitedly, inching one foot into the compartment. The boy’s eyebrow raised even higher, and he swept his eyes again over Albus and Rose. Reassessing.

“Rudolf Brand, previous captain of the Heidelberg Harriers, and yes – also receiver of Gwendolyn Morgan concussions.”

“ _Wicked_.”

It seemed as good an invitation as any to Albus; he plopped down on the opposite bench seat and stuck out his hand. “Albus Potter, pleasure to meet you.”

The boy took the offered hand, though his face went a bit slack at the name. That wasn’t new to Albus, especially when he, of the three Potter children, most closely resembled his father.

“S- Scorpius Malfoy.”

_Oh._ Rose, still hovering in the doorway, sucked in a breath. Albus glanced at her (still red) face, before turning back to the hand he was actively shaking. _Malfoy was…_

“Al, I’m sure James and Fred have room in their compartment,” Rose rushed out, voice higher than normal. Scorpius visibly shrunk back at the words, head burrowing into Rudolf’s fur and hand dropped back into his lap. The sight, for whatever reason, made Albus angry. He turned to glare at his cousin.

“I’m fine here, Rosie.”

“Al, come _on._ ”

“Honest, I am,” he replied forcefully. For emphasis, he put his legs up on the bench, settling further into his seat. Rose looked horrified at the sight. Scorpius pretended to return to his book, though both Albus and Rose knew he wasn’t actually reading.

Rose and Albus glared at each other for a few more seconds, before she finally gave up, huffing out what sounded almost like a growl, and pivoted back into the hallway. In an act of pure childishness, she shut the compartment door behind her so hard that it rattled.

For a few minutes, Scorpius and Albus sat in heavy silence. Scorpius was occasionally flipping the pages of his book, just to add noise to the space. His eyes didn’t move across the page, though.

“You know, my mom played for the Harpies,” Albus offered, eyeing the scuffs on his shoes where they were propped on the bench seat. Albus hated silences. “Not while Gwendolyn was on the team, but a bit after. Similar temper, though.”

Scorpius breathed out what _almost_ sounded like a laugh.

“Yeah… yeah, I know.”

***

Melynda Scamander slid into her own, empty compartment, heart pounding and hands sticky as they released her bags onto the floor in a heap. Lorcan and Lysander had run off, shouting belligerently about _James_ and _Fred_ and _Noah_ and leaving their eleven-year-old sister to fend for herself in the corridor. She’d thankfully been early enough to find a private seat; she didn’t wish for anyone to witness her expression, at present.

She’d never realized the accuracy of the word _homesick_ until now, with her stomach rolling in time with the train on its tracks. The farther from her parents and the station platform she became, the more ill she felt.

She was on her way to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, something she hadn’t really bothered to contemplate before now. Away from her parents; away from her home. The thought had her breakfast crawling dangerously back up her throat.

As she swallowed defiantly, there was a knock on the compartment door and it slid open. A girl – taller than Melynda, with hair like a bushfire and uniform robes already on and face scrunched unpleasantly – stood in the entrance. She didn’t yet step inside, though. Especially when she saw the raw panic on the other girl’s face.

“My name is Rose Weasley,” said the girl - more stated than presented as a greeting - sticking out a freckled arm towards Melynda to shake hands. “May I please sit with you in here?”

Melynda couldn’t tell if this Rose girl was asking out of ingrained politeness, or due to Melynda’s terrified expression, but she appreciated the gesture either way. She accepted the hand and nodded silently, and in seconds the girl had entered, closed, and drawn curtains on the door. Rose’s freckled face un-scrunched, if only a little. 

“My cousin is sitting with an _unsavory_ sort in another compartment. Up and abandoned me, he did,” Rose complained as she slid her bag into the overhead racks and took a seat. When she didn’t get a verbal response, she turned back to inspect the girl she’d intruded on.

The girl was quite small, with a lion’s mane of platinum hair and round blue eyes that darted around, cataloguing the details of the compartment. Rose wondered if the girl knew the way she, so visibly and greedily, absorbed her surroundings – it was a little fascinating to watch at work.

Rose could appreciate inquisitive people. She grew up with her _mother_ , after all. She sat down on one of the bench seats and continued to watch the girl until it became evident that she’d have to ask explicitly for an introduction.

“What’s your name?”

The girl flinched, eyes zeroing in on Rose’s relaxed form on the bench. Her mouth opened like a fish, and she stuck out her hand for a second handshake.

“Sorry, uh, Melynda Scamander. Sorry,” She muttered, shaking Rose’s hand vigorously. Rose grinned, and Melynda settled into her seat, finally.

“Are Rolf and Luna Scamander your parents? The Magizoologists?” Rose had attempted to read a number of their research articles, of which her mother had the full collection in their living room bookshelves. Most of the jargon was above her reading level (loath as she was to admit it), but the subject at large had always interested her.

When she told Melynda of her interest, the girl’s entire body seemed to go boneless, as if that was just what she needed to hear to get her to calm down. Rose tucked that information away for later use.

“My mom just got in their newest paper on regional cultures of merpeople, but I didn’t have a chance to read it before leaving home,” Rose mentioned, and Melynda’s eyes brightened.

“I could give you the basics, if you’d like,” She offered shyly. Rose nodded eagerly.

Who needed _quidditch_ when there were academic topics at your disposal? Not Rose, certainly.

If she reminded herself of that enough, maybe her cousin’s betrayal would hurt less.


End file.
